


labels.

by noboritaiga



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Cunnilingus, M/M, Trans Character, trans boy!Oswald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5646817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noboritaiga/pseuds/noboritaiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>edward needs labels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	labels.

There are hands in his hair, fingers curled tight, holding him in place, not that he has any intentions of moving away from where he is right now. No, Edward Nygma is perfectly content, which is not something he can often say about himself. Even as this situation with Oswald has settled into something more concrete, something he can cling to more tightly in his times of doubt, Ed has rarely been this content. On days when everything is going his way and he feels fine, things can turn so rapidly and rob him of his ability to cope until he feels like he has to hurt himself, somehow, some way, to feel better. On days when he does not doubt that Oswald does care, and that’s why he stays even when things become rough for both of them, Ed will suddenly worry that Oswald hates him, or wants to leave, or that his constant need for validation will drive Oswald away. He feels manipulative, like he is using his own needs against the person he loves, and it makes him feel sick to the bottom of his stomach.

 

Oswald… He understands, and he stays, and he does his best to help, and in return, Ed does his best to buoy the man he adores when that deep sadness that penetrates Oswald’s bones like a sickness sinks into him and refuses to let him go. And it is an uphill battle to figure out what will make him feel better, and this happens to be one of those days. A day when he was low, a day when Ed has been as careful as possible to make sure that he does all he can to bring a smile to Oswald’s face. It isn’t always easy, and he’s been snapped at quite a few times for overstepping his boundaries today, but he’d finally gotten somewhere about two hours ago, and now here they are.

 

He has one hand braced on the inside of Oswald’s thigh, feeling the muscles there tense and jump under his fingers, something that nudges at his ego in a subtle way that drives the intensity of the movement of his tongue. The other hand is wrapped firmly around Oswald’s hip, holding him at least somewhat in place as he tilts his head back for a quick but deep breath of air. His lung capacity has hopefully been impressive, and more than once tonight he’s let his lungs get tight just to feel that, and because the litany of little gasps and moans from above have been too wonderful to cut short for even a short moment.

 

His eyes dart up to check on Oswald, taking in the flush spread from his face down to his chest--maybe under the binder, but Ed can’t see through the fabric--the muscles in his arms trembling as his fingers only tighten in Ed’s hair. Pale blue eyes squeezed shut finally flick open and down, silently questioning him, asking him why he stopped, but Ed only takes another breath before ducking his head back down, lips sliding against hot wet skin and Oswald’s hands tighten up in his hair again, trying to pull him in closer even as he tries to arch off of the table. It’s hard to, because he has to push up against Ed’s hand, and Ed pushes him back down.

 

His scalp is sore from the constant tugging and pulling, but he knows it’s not intentional, that he is the reason it keeps happening, because ever nuzzle, every lick, every push of his tongue inside makes Oswald react. A startled gasp here, a little moan, and the constant pulling of his fingers, urging Ed closer. And he’s still only using his mouth, hasn’t shifted a hand into the equation yet, but he knows Oswald can only take so much more of this.

 

“Edward, please.” Oswald’s voice is half-slurred from pleasure and Ed’s grip on his hip tightens, fingers pressing into the pale skin, and he has to be careful because he knows he’ll leave a mark otherwise, and he still isn’t sure how he feels about that. About bruises.

 

But the tone of Oswald’s voice, the plea in his words sends that little thrill down Ed’s spine that speaks to more than his ego, more to that need inside of him, that urge to do the things that make Oswald happy. So he pulls him in closer, presses his tongue more firmly inside of him, shifts the hand on his thigh up. He’s been doing this just long enough, and Oswald is just wet enough, that he can start off with two fingers with less resistance than he thought he would, and Oswald makes a choked sound in the back of his throat. A quick glance up reveals his eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, lips parted as his breathing picks up.

 

“Do I need to stop?” He isn’t normally this skittish, because he’s gotten quite good at this, but he’s having trouble understanding what that facial expression says and the last thing he wants to do ever is risk hurting Oswald.

 

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare.” Oswald’s eyes find his, the fingers woven into his hair pulling just slightly. “I just… Forgot how good that felt.”

 

Ed perks up at the words. He knows this isn’t easy for Oswald, hasn’t been, because until now he’d kept a good deal of himself shut off, turned away from others, unwilling to share this part of him because so many people refused to take him seriously because of it. So many people refused to see him, and tried to define him based on the shape of his body, but Ed had proven more than once that he knows better, and that he knows no matter what Oswald looks like, he’s who he says he is, no one else, and Ed will always believe him.

 

He doesn’t get to do it for very long, though. Between the near-hour of build-up prior to this and the fact he’s learned how to touch Oswald just so, it’s not a surprise that Oswald all but rips his hair out, mumbling at him to hurry up, his thighs trembling and his breath hitching. Not that Ed can hurry, because the last thing he wants to do is hurry in the process of putting on a condom--and that opens up a risk neither of them are ready for and a risk that Oswald has determinedly stated he is not going to deal with--but it’s still only a matter of minutes before Oswald’s legs lock around his waist, back bowing off of the tabletop, fingers digging into Ed’s shoulders while Ed works his way inside of him.

 

(He has to be careful. So careful. Because he certainly wasn’t the first, but there haven’t been many, and Oswald needs him to be careful because the last thing Ed wants to do is hurt him, make him ache, make him bleed.)

 

The table is going to break one day, because once Oswald tells him to move, Ed forgets how to be gentle for a minute. Just for a minute, a clear minute in which Oswald’s nails leave marks on his back and those baby blues squeeze shut and the most beautiful sound leaves his lips, and Ed kisses it off of them because he can. And the table protests every single movement, but Oswald’s legs tighter around his waist, and the way he twists and writhes, the sounds, the facial expressions, the fervor in his kisses… It’s all worth it. And when Oswald finally comes down from a second orgasm--because Ed is all about pleasing the man he adores with all of his being--and Ed comes down from his, he has to fight the immediate urge to take Oswald to bed because he knows his legs are still too shaky to hold up another person’s weight.

 

Oswald traces a hand down his spine, breath soft and shallow, and Ed nuzzles against the side of his neck. “You’re mine.”

 

“Yours?” Ed lifts his head, blinks.

 

“Mine,” Oswald repeats.

 

Ed keeps that label held close to his heart and he refuses to let it go.


End file.
